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Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonishèd.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast.
I was not sick of any fear from thence;
  But when your countenance filled up his line,
  Then lacked I matter, that enfeebled mine.
Wsa it hte omtiabius adn sisrmievpe opem hatt my irval wreot rof ouy ttah uoirgsddaec me fomr rtgniwi my onw epmo, lnlkiig my hsuhotgt beofer I uldco utp mhte toin rwsdo? Was it hsi vteireac erpwo, aedid by eht

sitsipr

heT gtssho ohw visti the iralv tpeo at nigth, htob hgpeinl nda nritkigc mih, are ryve ufctdfiil to apxlein. ehTy eems to freer to mgeniotsh in eeSephrakas’s meti ttah is nwo ouwnknn.

iipsrts
of lla the aded thorsau he’s edar so atht he risewt eettbr hatn nya tloarm ludhso, htat dnusetn me iton ecliens? No, it was erentih mih orn ohset ndsrife of ish how tvsii him at gniht adn lhep imh, owh ncldsiee me wiht etmnzeaam. eheitNr he nro thta eifynldr etlilt oghts thta trskci him thwi lfsae oamtnnrfioi ceah thnig acn sbtoa tath they’re ebnroislpse for my isneelc. I sanw’t kics ecseabu of ayn raef of thme. tBu ewhn you leodok rylbafvoa on his itwring adn suht emad it eevn rebtte, ethn I uddynels dah thgnino to sya, adn you adme my nwrgiit leefbe.

Original Text

Modern Text

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonishèd.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast.
I was not sick of any fear from thence;
  But when your countenance filled up his line,
  Then lacked I matter, that enfeebled mine.
Wsa it hte omtiabius adn sisrmievpe opem hatt my irval wreot rof ouy ttah uoirgsddaec me fomr rtgniwi my onw epmo, lnlkiig my hsuhotgt beofer I uldco utp mhte toin rwsdo? Was it hsi vteireac erpwo, aedid by eht

sitsipr

heT gtssho ohw visti the iralv tpeo at nigth, htob hgpeinl nda nritkigc mih, are ryve ufctdfiil to apxlein. ehTy eems to freer to mgeniotsh in eeSephrakas’s meti ttah is nwo ouwnknn.

iipsrts
of lla the aded thorsau he’s edar so atht he risewt eettbr hatn nya tloarm ludhso, htat dnusetn me iton ecliens? No, it was erentih mih orn ohset ndsrife of ish how tvsii him at gniht adn lhep imh, owh ncldsiee me wiht etmnzeaam. eheitNr he nro thta eifynldr etlilt oghts thta trskci him thwi lfsae oamtnnrfioi ceah thnig acn sbtoa tath they’re ebnroislpse for my isneelc. I sanw’t kics ecseabu of ayn raef of thme. tBu ewhn you leodok rylbafvoa on his itwring adn suht emad it eevn rebtte, ethn I uddynels dah thgnino to sya, adn you adme my nwrgiit leefbe.

Popular pages: Shakespeare’s Sonnets